


and all the shame (it’s gonna call you home)

by weepingnaiad



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Comic Book Science, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Scott Lang is a Good Bro, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: Clint's back on the team and one of his first tasks is rescuing Ant Man from somewhere in the wilds of the Yukon.  Thanks to crazy AIM weaponry, it doesn't go at all according to plan.  Aw, plane, no.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Scott Lang
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo, Trope Bingo: Round Fourteen





	and all the shame (it’s gonna call you home)

**Author's Note:**

> My undying thanks to [FadedSepia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/gifts) for the encouragement and the beta reading! I, of course, fiddled with things after they read it, so any errors are mine.

Clint scanned the open field he'd been given the coordinates to, but he couldn't see anyone waiting. He flipped on the scanner; what it revealed was not good, very not good. There were far too many large heat signatures closing in on this location. But he'd been asked to pick up Scott, so he was going to at least give it his best shot.

He hovered a moment longer, gave himself time to suit up before landing. He didn't decloak until he was standing at the ramp and pressed the button for it to drop. Glancing around he didn't see anyone. His aids picked up all those vehicles closing in, though.

"Lang!" he shouted before grabbing an arrow and nocking it. Being alone, he wasn't about to leave the quinjet.

"Barton?" came from behind him.

Whirling around he was met by Scott Lang in the Ant suit, helmet sliding open.

"What the fuck?" He hated that he startled, and was still holding Lang at arrow-point. Fucking tiny hero! "Lang?" Before he let Lang reply, he shook it off. "You alone?"

"Yeah," Lang answered. "But not for long."

"I noticed." Clint slapped the door release, bringing the ramp up, then moved quickly to the cockpit, stowing his bow and quiver nearby. "Who'd you piss off, anyway?"

Lang hadn't moved, just stood there awkwardly. "Um, AIM, I think." He shuffled from foot to foot, reminding Clint of his kids when they were in trouble. Scott continued, "Or well, that's the impression that I got from their flyers. I think that asshat Darren Cross is back, and he's hooked up with some other dude. It's never good when asshole scientists are collaborating. So, I went in to investigate."

"I didn't need your life story, dude, just an idea of what kind of shit these guys are armed with." Clint rolled his eyes, but hit the cloaking device and revved the engines as he prepared the take-off sequence.

"Oh! Sorry, um, I think they have conventional weapons, maybe a tank?"

"Maybe a tank?" Clint glanced over his shoulder. "You better sit down and buckle up. It's gonna be a rough ride."

"Shit! Right." Scott still looked a bit lost as he fumbled with the harness.

"You okay, man? They drug you? Are you hurt?" Clint didn't have time to worry about him, but he did need to know if the guy he had been sent to extract needed medical attention.

"Huh?" Scott just blinked at Clint. "Nah, I'm just… why are you here?"

"Why am I here?" Clint snorted. "I was in the neighborhood."

The quinjet lurched upward just as an armored battalion roared into the clearing. Clint concentrated on getting them aloft while avoiding the weaponry. A red light zipped in front of him and he swore as he banked quickly and dove under the laser blast.

"Lasers? They have futzin' lasers?" he shouted over his shoulder. "Can you work a repulsor cannon?"

"I have no idea," Scott answered. "Tell me where it is and I'll give it a shot."

"Get to the nav station," Clint explained. "It's the PC keyboard and screen on the wall to your left in the back."

"Cool!"

The quinjet jerked and spun just as Scott stood up, knocking him back to the bench. "I'm okay!" he shouted, before moving quickly to the console and strapping in.

"Good, because the range on those blasts is crazy! I need some cover fire."

"Won't that just give away our location?" Scott called out, but the screen in front of him lit up and he grabbed the joystick. "Is this like _Battle Tanks_?"

"Make sure the 'cloak active' indicator is green on the top of the screen," he said. "It should send off a spray of shots from random areas of the jet. If it works like it's supposed to, it'll have the effect of scattering our fire, making it look like there's more than one of us up here."

"Wow," Scott breathed out. "Here goes."

Before he could fire there was a new barrage of laser blasts, the large red single pulses shifting to a volley of smaller blue blasts, strafing across the sky. "Shit!" Clint heard a sizzle and then felt the quinjet skitter in the air just as Scott opened fire.

Clint hit the afterburners and rocketed them out of there as fast as they could go.

Scott whooped out. "Awesome!"

Clint glanced at the gauges, then at their flight path. "Not good," he muttered.

Scott was shifting around in the back, heading toward the cockpit.

"Don't," Clint warned as Scott popped his head forward.

"What?"

"Go strap in on the bench and brace yourself." Clint swallowed.

"What's up?" Scott asked, but he did follow Clint's order.

"That last barrage must have hit one of the fuel cells. We're losing power, and taking it offline hasn't slowed the leak."

"Want me to look at it?"

Clint glanced back over his shoulder. "You know how to work on quinjets?" he asked, impressed despite himself.

Scott shrugged. "Not really," he said. "But I've done more than my share of double E work." He met Clint's gaze and seemed confident enough. "What can it hurt?"

Clint shook his head. "A shit ton, but sure, give it a shot."

He described which fuel cell was leaking and which hatch to use to access it, then turned to concentrate on getting them as close to civilization as possible on one engine.

"Any idea why they picked the middle of fucking nowhere in the Yukon?" he asked Scott over the comm link. Yes, he was trying to distract himself from the sluggish stick and the sinking feeling that they weren't making it out of this with the jet intact.

"Cross was all about miniaturization, but the other guys? Their schtick was more biological," Scott was explaining before Clint heard a softly muttered, "Oh shit."

"What was that?"

"I think we need to get out of the sky and quick!" Scott shouted, making Clint wince.

"I'm trying, man," Clint answered, still fighting the controls. "What's up?"

"Whatever they shot us with wasn't just a laser," he said from immediately behind Clint.

"What the fuck!" Clint cried out, jerking around and letting the stick go for an instant which allowed the quinjet to bank sharply. "Goddammit!" he swore and grabbed the stick again. "Get the fuck to the back and get strapped in," he barked out. "Then tell me what happened."

At least Scott didn't argue.

"The power cell that got hit is gone."

"What do you mean, it's gone?" And no, Clint's voice didn't squeak there on the end.

"I think we just became guinea pigs for whatever that miniaturized biological weapon is."

Just then the other fuel cell crapped out and all the power cut off. Swearing and flipping switches to get the auxiliary power unit to restart, Clint didn't have time to think about what Scott had said. Just as he was about to give up and drag them both to the parachutes, the auxiliary unit kicked on. The jet shuddered and groaned around them, but they were still level, and Clint was using every trick in the book to conserve power.

"The plane's not alive," Clint countered. None of this made sense. Maybe this was just a nightmare and he'd wake up in his bed to find out the last year hadn't actually happened? _If only._

"No, and whatever they shot at us isn't, either, but it -- _they_ \-- seem to be feeding on the exoskeleton of the quinjet."

"Ugh," Clint groaned. "I've seen this in one sci-fi movie or another."

"Yeah, me, too," Scott agreed. "You need to land before we don't have a plane around us."

"Shit!" Clint swore, glancing at the maps and flightplan. "We're not exactly near anywhere _to_ land."

"Better than falling out of the sky."

"How much time do we have?" Clint scanned the ground below. It was mostly tundra and frozen water. He'd been flying south but they were still too far north; nowhere below them looks safe to parachute onto.

Scott swiped a hand over his face. "I don't know," he admitted. "If this is anything like the movies, they'll consume faster the more they eat. Kind of like an exponential curve. So anywhere from ten minutes to an hour?"

Clint swore. "I'm flying on auxiliary power only, not exactly moving fast here."

"Shut down all the unnecessary systems," Scott suggested. "Get low enough and we don't need a pressurized cabin. Shut down the cloak. We've got to be far enough away that it won't matter."

It was a good play, so Clint did it. And on the horizon, almost at the limits of his vision, he could see forest. Or mountains. He wasn't sure which at this distance. Looking at the topo maps, it was not mountains. "Okay, I think we're coming up on a forest. I'll try to land us before the trees. Then we'll have cover and hopefully somewhere warm to wait out extraction."

"Okay, I trust you, Hawkguy," Scott said, making Clint roll his eyes. "Or is it Ronin? Wait, I thought you re-retired?"

"Stop talking, Lang. For fuck's sake. Stop. Talking."

"Sir, yes, sir!"

The auxiliary power unit cut out again and the plane dropped a good two to four hundred feet. Scott shouted from the back while the only thing holding Clint in his seat was his harness. But he hadn't tightened it and his head hit the stick then bounced back against the headrest dazing him.

By the time he recovered, the ground was looming up to meet them.

"Fuck! Hold on!"

"I am!" Scott's voice sounded strangled, but there was no time to worry about that. 

Clint was using all of his strength to pull the jet's nose up, to get them into some semblance of a landing pattern, but the jet was squawking and juddering around them, groaning and squeaking like an old merry-go-round. He thought he had the glidepath down, running along an old logging road, but at a few hundred feet one of the wings snapped off, sending the quinjet spinning and bucking, the ground coming up hard and fast.

"Brace for impact!" Clint shouted as they were suddenly pitched straight down.

~~*~~

An annoying tickle kept sweeping against Clint's left ear, disturbing his sleep. He tried to brush it off, groaning, "Five more minutes." His voice was rusty and raw - and something else wasn't right - but he was tired and had no interest in being awake.

"Barton?"

That voice was not Laura. Clint sighed, sunk into whatever warmth he was resting on and refused to open his eyes.

"C'mon, Hawkguy, I'm not a doctor, but I know you shouldn't be napping with a concussion."

"Lang? What the hell happened?" At least that's what Clint tried to say, it came out far less intelligible to Clint's ears.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Lang asked. It almost sounded like he was smiling.

Clint opened his eyes, blinking to make things focus. He turned his head and immediately realized that was a very bad idea. "Ouch," he moaned as someone drove spikes into his skull and played bongos on his spine. It felt like he was bruised from his neck down to his toes.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Lang sounded apologetic.

"What?" Clint tried to get out, but it was slurred. Another bad sign.

"You were wedged in the cockpit pretty badly. Took a bit of pulling to get you out." Lang's voice was soft, thumb brushing the back of his neck and that's when it all came back: the jet tearing apart and diving straight toward the ground. They'd crashed. And apparently he was laying _on_ Lang.

He wanted to move, felt like he should, but his body wasn't cooperating. "What's wron' wit' me?" he mumbled.

He felt Scott hesitate. "I'm no medic, but I _might_ have given you a sedative."

"Not good, man," Clint said, words still hard.

"I know, but there was so much blood!"

Lang sounded panicked. Clint was too floaty to feel much of anything. "Shhhhhh," he murmured. "'Sokay."

Lang took a shuddering breath, then nodded. "I'm just. You can't die on me, Barton. We're in the middle of fucking nowhere!"

Clint awkwardly patted the arm that he just now noticed was wrapped around his waist. "Not goin' anywhere."

"Good," Lang sounded relieved.

"Where are we?" Wherever they were, it was dark with a dim light coming from behind them. It was cool, but not frigid and he wasn't shivering. Maybe Lang had found a cave. Or Lang had found some sort of magic blanket and wrapped them in it. Clint couldn't be all that sure, but he was warm enough, especially at his back where he was pressed into Lang and what did it matter, really? He was alive.

Lang didn't answer and Clint was about to ask again when he finally spoke up. "We're in a burrow."

"Huh?"

"It's way below freezing out there! So I got some help to move you. It works better when you're their size," Lang was speaking words, but he was talking too fast and wasn't making any sense. The drugs he gave Clint must be super soldier sized since they obviously hadn't worn off yet.

"Can you repeat that, but in English?" Clint asked.

Lang took a deep breath then said slowly and cautiously, "We're ant size and in a burrow underground."

Clint tried to jerk away, but Lang clamped his arm tight, keeping Clint in place. "Don't. We have to stay like this."

"What?" Clint's voice sounded hysterical to his ears. "Why? And what the hell?"

"I had to make some modifications to the suit," he explained. "So it would work for both of us, but I only have one regulator."

"How?"

"Does that really matter?"

"Guess not," Clint had to admit. "So now what?"

"The comms aren't working, but the emergency beacon seems to be. I'm assuming that someone back at HQ sent you, so we wait."

"Wilson's never gonna let me live this down," Clint groaned, then sagged back into Lang's warmth. "'S not so bad down here."

"I'd give my eye teeth for a heater, but these space blankets aren't bad and at least we're not frozen solid like we'd be up there."

"Thanks, man," Clint said, sincere, wriggling just a bit to get more comfortable. "You saved my life."

"Back atcha, dude," Scott replied, voice breathy at Clint's ear. "Any idea how long before someone finds us?"

Clint shrugged. "I mean, it was supposed to be a quick in and out. Six hours up and six back."

"So, it could still be six hours before they notice we're missing?" Scott swallowed, shifted at Clint's back, his breath speeding up.

"Hey, no, man, don't," he said, trying to soothe the rising panic he could feel coming off Scott in waves. "They'll be expecting a check in as soon as I got you and we were clear," he explained, voice going rough. "Can't be too long 'fore they start looking."

Scott was still fidgeting at his back, but his breathing had returned to normal. That was a win in Clint's book. "You got some water? I'm dying here."

Almost immediately Clint felt a water pouch press into his hand. Shifting carefully to keep everything in place, he brought the pouch to his lips and twisted the cap before sucking it dry. "Thanks," he replied, eyelids getting heavy. "Think I'm gonna nap now."

"No!" Scott called out, too close to Clint's ears, making Clint flinch. "Sorry. Sorry. You have a concussion and possibly internal injuries. You shouldn't sleep."

Clint wanted to whine, felt the protest bubbling up, but Scott squeezed his waist. "Just," he paused, left Clint hanging until Clint couldn't take it any longer, then he continued, "none of this has been tested before. Maybe talk to me? What convinced you to come out of retirement?"

That was a sore subject, but Clint's eyes were heavy and he _was_ having a hard time staying awake. Might as well get it over with.

"Laura kicked me out," he said, the words thick and hard to force out. His lungs seized up at the confession. He hadn't told anyone yet, hadn't been able to admit to how completely fucked up he was.

"I'm sorry," Scott said, voice little more than a whisper, but no pity in the sound. "Been there, done that, bought the ranch," he continued, a dry chuckle ending his words. "If it helps, my ex and her husband, we're friends now. It's weird, I lost five years of their lives, but we're working through that."

He took a breath, arm squeezing Clint's middle a little tighter. "That didn't happen overnight. There was a time when Maggie wouldn't look at me, couldn't talk to me without losing her temper," he offered. Clint could hear the hurt that still lingered from that. "She had good reasons. I'd fucked up one too many times, but, yeah. I get it. And I'm here if you need to talk to someone who could get it." He snorted, shaking his head. "Not like the rest of the team have wives, um, or husbands, not being a bigot here, but they sure don't have _kids._ "

"Yeah," Clint breathed out, the weight pressing his lungs flat easing up. He reached up to swipe at his nose and felt tears on his cheeks. Fuck.

"You don't have to tell me anything, but I've been told I'm a good listener," Scott said.

Clint chuckled wetly. "That's a lie. You never stop talking, Lang."

"Scott. You saved my life and we're cuddling. You should call me Scott."

"Only if you call me Clint," he said. "None of that Hawkguy bullshit."

Scott chuckled. "Deal."

Clint drifted then, mind playing Laura's last words to him on repeat. Her accusations weren't the worst of reliving that memory. No, the worst thing, the thing that had his pulse racing and his throat closing, that was the moment he turned away from Laura and locked eyes with Coop and Lila staring at him from the stairs. Their expressions were flat, suspicious, almost hostile. And that was when Clint _knew._ If he fought it, if he tried to stay, tried to talk Laura out of it, he'd lose all chance he had to be in his kids' lives. Resigned, he nodded and left with the clothes on his back and his bow.

Driving away had been the hardest thing he'd ever done.

"You know what helped?" Scott asked, breaking the silence and jolting Clint back to awareness.

"What?" Clint croaked.

"Becoming Ant Man," he answered.

"I woulda thought that'd hurt, not helped."

"Nah. I couldn't get decent work after I got out. So it was hard to do right by Cassie. I didn't have the money for child support. And Maggie, bless her, was understanding, but that doesn't make the bills go away."

"You get paid to be a hero?"

"Um, not exactly? I mean, a bit? It's complicated, but Hank's loaded and he's got me on a salary."

Money wasn't Clint's problem. "So, paying child support was all it took?"

Scott shook his head. "It helped, but that's not it. It just proved that I was serious. That I was trying. That I wasn't a useless fuckup. That I could put Cass first." He sighed. "Does that make sense?"

Clint sighed. "You got an 'A' for effort. Not the same deal at all."

"No, it was an example."

"Lang--"

"Scott."

"Sorry," Clint apologized. "Scott, I have flashbacks. I have nightmares when I sleep. I have insomnia and hypervigilance. I'm a fucking _assassin._ " Clint growled. "I'm dangerous."

"Duh," Scott said, voice full of derision. "How is that news?"

"What?"

"Weren't you all those things before you had kids?" Scott asked, voice purposefully slow like Clint was being an idiot.

"Maybe?"

"Either you were or you weren't," Scott said. "But you've been at this for almost your whole life, right?" he asked, but didn't wait for Clint to answer. "Of course you have. I've read all about you. So, things went pear-shaped for five years and you proved yourself a fallible human. It takes time to get over that. So give yourself time. Give them time. It'll all work out."

"You sound awfully sure of yourself," Clint huffed out.

"Nah. You had a tough time, but you're still _you._ They'll figure that out."

Clint sagged, shook his head. "Things were tough before. Laura never got over that shit in Germany."

"Well you can't put the genie back in the bottle; if you're better off apart, the quicker you accept it, the faster you get back on speaking terms."

Swiping at his face, Clint was silent in the face of Scott's pragmatic words.

"How about this?" Scott asked.

"How about what?"

"We get out of this, then you and I can commiserate."

"Commiserate?"

"Now you're just repeating everything I'm saying."

"Not everything you're saying," Clint replied with a grin.

Clint could feel Scott's chuckle against his back. "So the way I look at it is we're regular guys on a team of supes. _And_ the only ones with kids and ex-wives. We gotta stick together."

"Your hair's not long enough to braid," Clint said, but the offer lifted the boulder off his lungs, actually made him smile.

"Asshole!" Scott replied.

"Barton!" Wilson shouted from somewhere above them.

"Lang! Where the hell are you?" And that was Barnes. "The beacon's right here, Cap. So where the fuck are they?"

"You want to scare the crap out of Captain America and the Winter Soldier?" Scott whispered.

"Hell, yeah!" Clint replied with a laugh. "But you might have to carry me."

"Fuck that. Barnes can do it. He's got the metal arm," Scott said, but Clint could hear the smile on his face. "Let's do this."

That was all the warning Clint got before they were moving, dark shapes lifting them, a mass moving them toward the light source, which was a penlight pointing down the burrow. As they neared the surface, the temperature dropped precipitously, making Clint shiver.

"Sorry. But we'll be warm soon," Scott said. "I promise."

Then they were out and immediately after _that_ they were full size again. Scott's timing was impeccable and they appeared between Barnes and Wilson, both of whom screamed out loud.

Scott was bent double laughing and Clint sagged against a tree, holding his ribs as he chuckled. "Your faces!" he wheezed. "Oh, fuck!" he hissed. "I think I'm gonna pass out now," he got out before the world went gray.

~~*~~

Clint groaned. Everything hurt. His throat was raw, eyes gummed shut. What the hell had he done?

Then it all came back to him. "'Ya get the tag of that tank that ran o'er me?" he muttered, voice a hard whisper. He tried to swallow, but couldn't get any spit. Before he could ask for help a straw was pressed to his lips, but the hydrating fluid was withdrawn too quickly.

"Hey!" he protested, but finally wrenched his sticky eyelids open to see Scott leaning over him, smile wide and toothy.

"There you are!" he said, lips exaggerating each word.

Clint batted at Scott's arm, trying to get more water. "You don't gotta do that. Just look at me. I can read lips even when you talk normally." He had no idea about the volume of his voice, but Scott was neither wincing or leaning closer so he'd probably gotten it close enough.

"Sorry," Scott apologized. "Let me get the doc."

He turned to leave. "Wait! Leave me the water!"

Scott stopped, then turned back around. He caught Clint's eye before speaking. "Was only supposed to give you a sip."

"That's all I got!"

"Let me get the doc to clear you first."

Clint rolled his eyes, but nodded. Not like he actually had any choice. Not going by all the wires and the way he was bandaged to hell and back.

~~*~~

"Doc Cho is evil," Clint whined after the door closed behind Dr. Helen Cho.

Scott snickered beside him. "She's just doing her job," Scott said. "You might have a hard head, but it takes time to heal a broken skull."

"Meh, it's a hairline fracture," Clint argued.

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Scott was being awfully agreeable. "But the impact still caused your brain to swell. So you are going to lay there and be a good patient." Ah, there was the argument. 

"I've never in my life done that," Clint shot back. "Why would I start now?"

Scott sagged, shoulders drooping, eyes drawing down. "Humor me, please?" he asked, voice quiet, but desperate. "I could have killed you!"

Clint scoffed. "You saved me."

Before Scott could counter that with more guilt-tinged bullshit, Wilson and Barnes burst into Clint's room. "Heard you were awake!" Sam said, gap-toothed smirk front and center. Barnes was lurking behind him, usual glower firmly in place.

Clint grabbed a pillow and covered his face.

"What are you doing?" Scott hissed from the side of the bed, beside Clint's ear.

"Smothering myself!" Clint turned, the bedrail the only thing separating them. "I am never going to live this down," he explained in a whisper.

Of course, he forgot super soldier hearing.

"You're right, Barton," Barnes replied. "I am going to remind everyone how we had to rescue you from saving Lang!"

Wilson cackled. _Cackled._

Clint pulled out his right hand from under the covers, the one _with_ the I.V. and flipped them off. "Get out!" he ordered. "Didn't you hear? I was in a plane crash and have a fractured skull." He added a slight whine at the end for effect. "You're impeding my healing."

"We heard," Wilson said. "Banner and Richards have a team at the site to try to isolate whatever that thing--"

"Things!" Scott interrupted. "Teeny-tiny mechanical critters," he said, hands fluttering. "And I know teeny-tiny critters."

Clint chuckled, but caught himself before it was more than a breathy noise. The last thing he needed was for Wilson or Barnes to cotton on to the fact that he liked Scott. He was a good man and so much smarter than he let on, something intimately familiar to Clint. Plus, he'd saved Clint's life, all while sharing heat and so much of his own. It was a bonding experience. And Clint had to admit he'd like to get to know Scott better. Maybe he could help Clint figure out how to fix his own screwed up life?

When he checked back into the conversation, Scott was arguing bio-tech and nano bots with Barnes while Wilson was trying to referee, but actually making things worse.

Clint whistled.

That stopped everyone instantly. Three men turned to look at him.

"As much fun as this is, the doc has me on the good drugs, and I just don't have the fucking patience for you anymore," Clint wasn't going to feign a smile.

"Barton--" Sam began. He drew himself up into his "Cap stance" as Clint thought of it.

"No, sir," Scott interrupted. "He's right. Debrief once he's released. By then the science guys should know more about what we're fighting." He was pushing both Wilson and Barnes toward the door as he spoke.

"Now--"

"I heard the doc," Scott interrupted once again. "It was serious. He nearly _died_ ," he hissed, voice dropped into a stage whisper as if he was telling them something Clint didn't know or couldn't hear, but the joke was on them because Clint's aids were the very best, gave him almost super soldier hearing. "He needs to rest and you as the team leader should respect that."

Clint had to work hard to keep from laughing out loud. Scott Lang had just _owned_ Captain America.

Barnes snorted. "Respect that, my ass," he said. "C'mon, _boss._ Not like Lang'll let Barton out of his sight. I think it's safe to leave them to it for now."

It was eating at Wilson to not have the last word, so he scowled at Clint and mouthed 'debrief' before yanking the door open with more force than it required. Barnes' reflexes and arm were the only things keeping Wilson from getting slammed by the kickback, which made Scott snort-laugh. At their dual glares, Clint just gave them both a smirk and a little finger wave.

"Phew!" Scott said, voice miles lighter. Clint turned to see him drop into the chair next to Clint's bed.

"You don't have to stay," Clint said. "Just because Barnes is an asshole--"

"Dude, I _want_ to," Scott said, voice firm. "Now, did I tell you about the time Luis and I were contracted to be private security?"

Clint sagged into the bed, a small smile on his face. He shook his head and settled in to listen.

Life might suck right now, but for the first time in a long time he thought he could see light at the end of the tunnel. He might have even made a new friend. And those, Clint knew, were more precious than gold.

Hope, and Scott's enthusiastic babble, washed over Clint, suffusing him with warmth.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for three bingos:  
> My Clint Barton Bingo square: _Clint Barton/Scott Lang_  
>  My Trope Bingo amnesty round square: _huddle for warmth_  
>  My _very_ old, cirque 2014, Hurt-Comfort Bingo square: _plane crash_
> 
> Title from "Surviving", by Jimmy Eat World, again provided by my title whisperer: [hitlikehammers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers)


End file.
